Merciful God
by Cardeia
Summary: A snapshot in time of Arthur and Lancelot, reconciling with the deaths of their companions and questioning faith in the face of grief. Set premovie.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the character names, save my own original creations. I do not wish to be compensated for this work, nor do I wish to infringe on any copyrights held by any stakeholders of the movie King Arthur. This work is an original creation, based on the legend of King Arthur and his knights.

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**Scribe Notes:**

This came on last night, and flowed out of my fingers while thinking about the friendship that these two share. Being so different, so vastly alien to one another, yet able to bond on that level that provides them with what they need.

This is about Arthur, and his reasoning for that friendship.

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**Merciful God**

"Do not tell me that your God wills this!"

Arthur avoided Lancelot's eyes, and did not answer his cutting remark. It was always the way after a death, or many. Lancelot always pushed at him, ranting his own hopeless feelings, ex­pelling the emotion he refused to let come in the form of tears or open grief. Arthur could not understand why every time, Lancelot would attack him, questioning his faith, his belief. Of all the things he could needle him about, he chose religion.

It was tiresome, but he let it pass. It was always explosive, but shortlived.

Arthur scanned the row of bodies covered by cloaks, further blocking Lancelot from cutting through his forced calm, giving him reason to shout and grieve. Not here, not now. He must lead these men, even in times of death. He pushed the rage deep down, bit it back as he stood, silent, steeling his gaze to one of calm commander, while his second boiled beside him.

Never had they faced such a loss at once, and it worried him. His knights were strong, those that remained, but faced such trials yet, only halfway in their tithe.

His eyes took in Galahad and Gawain, both of them standing by their eldest brother, heads bowed, arms limp... bloodied, cut. Young Galahad in tears, Gawain's face a mask of grief, his arm about the freshly blooded knight beside him.

Just this battle did Galahad kill his first man. The first of many.

Perceval, his head wrapped, his arm held in a sling of cloth, his face blank as he sat by his own brother, silently rocking, mumbling as he held his good hand, palm down to the corpses fore­head. Pellinore beside him; worried expression over his face.

Arthur remembered that Perceval was kicked soundly by his horse as he was dragged down. It had saved his life, the woad doing so thinking he was dead. He did not come out of his stupor in time to save his brother, beside him in the fray. He had died overtop of Perceval, so Pellinore described, just as he awoke, his brother's fall breaking Perceval's arm, armour snapping bone as it hit sharply and dug into the ground.

Arthur ran a hand down his face tiredly and blinked away anger. In the heat of battle, nothing was sure, everything was chance and skill and speed...

No one was safe from the killing blow if it came unaware.

Owain, Bedwyr, Geraint, Bevedere, Gaheris, Lamorak, Kei, Gareth, Bertilak, Ector... Ten men gone. Bloodied and beaten bodies all that was left of their warrior spirit. All that remained of their honour, courage...

They would never see home, as he had promised them when they lined up their first day for in­spection. Fight hard, be brave, he had said... and you shall see your families again.

All so young. All aged too quickly in the task set in front of them.

He watched Bors quietly kneel beside a sobbing young redhead, barely of age, two children at her skirts, one hand grasping at the cloak covering her lover, the other over her swollen belly. Bors gathered her into his arms, whispering to her, the children watching him with wide eyes and running noses while she wailed on his shoulder, her body limp from the grief.

"Here... come... I'll take care of you an' the young'uns." Arthur heard him rasp out of his battle hoarse throat, rocking her. "Flower... pet..."

Arthur's mind suddenly turned oddly to the Roman army rule which could allow children to be bred unheeded, yet not allow marriage until appointed an officer. He switched his eyes away from the emotional scene. His own children he did not know, was not allowed to know. His lov­er gone, banished to allow him to command without distraction, the church deeming his lover immoral, the children bastards, pagan.

Twin boys... they would be in their second year now. Amhar and Loholt, his lover had named them, smiling widely when he entered the birth room, her pride evident, his wonder at them complete.

So long ago now... A life ago. Yet only a year. And seven more before he could search her out, find his sons, regain the life he wished he could lead now. His heart felt empty as he banished the thoughts of them from his head.

Not yet, not yet could he leave, but the urge to walk away... leave the courtyard; leave the car­nage and the pain... He blinked and searched at the end of the row, desperate to find something to focus on to allow his mind to quiet.

Tristan stood silently there, his hawk on his shoulder, hands crossed at his waist. Silent vigil over his companions. He was waiting. For what, Arthur was not sure. It was good enough, and met eyes with his trusted scout. They kept each others gaze.

Arthur held back tremors of guilt, fear, and grief when at last Tristan broke his stare. He sagged, Lancelot's words echoing in his head once more. How this man was closest to him, he some­times could also not understand, but in him, he had found a bond that had yet to find equal. It was Lancelot who spurred him onwards, contested his decisions, pushed him to react instead of plan... Gave him challenge when sparring, and measure to strangle him when arguing.

And laughter when he needed it most.

No, as Lancelot had asked, he could not believe that his God could will this... but yet, there it was. Dead bodies, dead brothers at arms. All he had drunk with, trained with, taught to honour and respect one another, be brave...

"Arthur... Look at me!" Lancelot hissed, coming closer.

"Lancelot..." Arthur exhaled, swivelling his glance to his second, trying as much to calm him­self as the seething knight beside him. "Please listen to reason...what God wishes cannot be..."

"Do not lecture me!" Lancelot spat, jerking his body around to face him, his eyes blazing, his face taut with frustration. He stopped just short of touching bodies with him, swallowing rapid­ly, his fists curling and uncurling. Long muscled fingers snapping with tension. Arthur could see his chest heaving from underneath his armour, could feel the breath coming from his nose, and curled lips.

Eye met eye, forced calm from Arthur, abhorrent rage from Lancelot.

"Do not think to even start. Those are my brothers! My PEOPLE! What do you know of our Gods, what they would wish? Surely not this." He shouted, flashing teeth, pointing towards the row of dead knights, his fingers shaking. The others looked up, his loud voice attracting their attention.

"Lancelot. Do not do this. I grieve as you do. They were my friends, my..."

"FRIENDS?" Lancelot screamed then, shoving him in the chest, sending the larger man back­wards. "Friends? You would send your friends to slaughter? TEN MEN Arthur... TEN!"

His voice was now at a panicked pitch. Arthur held his hands out. "What would you have me do? Ask the mysterious Merlin to breathe life back into corpses? I can no more stop the tides than do this."

Lancelot let out a sound that could only be described as deep despair. His neck corded, his eyes hot, his entire body rigid with it. Arthur grasped at his arm as he turned. Lancelot jerked it an­grily away.

"Do not think to placate me." He rasped, and strode away through the door to the barracks alley.

Arthur ran hands over his face once more, deeply exhausted. He could not leave, yet his mind was urging him to follow his friend, reason with him. He should not need to defend his faith, but with Lancelot... He let out another breath and settled his stance again, willing calm as he stood sentry with his knights. His duty was to these men. He had failed them in life; he must not do so in death.

A hand on his shoulder spun him around, his hackles rising. What more could this day provide to further give him measure to feel wretched?

"Arthur. Jols is here with the cart. We must prepare."

Dagonet, calm and quiet, eyes fixed on his, gave Arthur pause. He looked down towards the al­leyway once more, then back to Dagonet.

"Go." Dagonet murmured. "What you cannot mend here, you can provide him now."

"See to this." Arthur clipped, nodded, and strode off, cloak billowing, hobnails on gravel. His legs, aching from battle, straining. Was it for Lancelot's sake or his he followed?

Both, he reasoned, as he turned a corner towards where he knew the knight would be.

Arthur pushed open the door to quarters that was Lancelot's, shared with Gareth. Dust from time spent away and little use floated in the air. Sunlight through the tiny crack of a window filtered through, showing what little was in the room as bareness. Two cots, two chests... Two armour racks.

Now only one was needed.

Arthur swallowed, lips thinning, finding Lancelot on his cot, in the corner, darkness around him. The knight sat numbly, head in hand, shoulders hunched. Still bloody from battle. Still dressed with swords on his back.

Sobbing.

"Lancelot."

"Leave me." Lancelot croaked through tears. "Just leave."

Arthur stepped down into the coolness of the room, feeling the damp of the sunken floor on his legs. He sat beside his second, folding his hands, waiting. When no sign came to push him away, he took breath.

"Lancelot, believe me when I say my grief is as strong as yours in this."

"Grief? Does your God allow you to grieve Arthur?"

"Yes."

"How merciful." Lancelot spat, his eyes darting hotly to Arthur's face, daring him to renew the argument.

"He is." Arthur replied calmly. He would not rise to this bait. It was time to put this past them. There was much work yet to be done. Argument could come later, over cups of wine.

Lancelot, tears dried on his face, wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his tunic, pulled out from under armour, paused at his response. Arthur watched him, reflecting for a moment. Both of them just twenty and three summers. Was this too much for men in the prime of their lives? Mer­ciful? He was not sure that was the right description.

"How can a God whom you cannot see, or touch, or speak with be merciful? How can he know your pain when he himself..." Lancelot started, then stopping, showing how futile he felt the conversation was. He was leaning now on his legs, hands rubbing one another absently. Arthur watched, and reached out his own, grasping his thigh.

Lancelot looked at him, eyes searching for understanding in the answer he awaited. Arthur fur­rowed his brow. What could he say to this man, this knight, to make him understand? His God was not Lancelot's God, and never could be. Two different worlds sat beside each other in this room. Two different lives affected the same way by the deaths of their companions.

Perhaps the mercy was that fact alone, their friendship, solidified in this madness.

"Lancelot... I believe in his mercy each time we ride away from battle, that we may yet live to honour the fallen as best we can."

"Is it mercy to torture the living with the legacy of the dead?" Lancelot countered.

"No, but it is the mercy which we show our brethren in the face of that legacy that makes me believe." Arthur stated, looking away towards Gareth's cot, hand still on Lancelot's thigh. Lancelot's eyes followed.

Silence.

"Come. Let's go. We have duties to attend." He said softly, patting Lancelot's leg.

Lancelot nodded, but did not move as Arthur stood. He hung his head a moment, rubbing his eyes, his face, fingers through matted hair. Tiredness was washing over them both.

Arthur looked down to his second, awaiting the next smart response, the next barb that he knew would follow. Always when he swallowed his anger did he mask it with mirth. Lancelot stood with a deep groan of stiffness, clasping a hand to Arthur's forearm.

Arthur returned the gesture. Eye met eye, but this time in friendship, not hardness. No anger anymore. Knight to knight.

"Old friend." He murmured. "In all this, you have yet to be unmerciful to me. I should not ques­tion you so."

Arthur let go of Lancelot's arm, walking towards the door. "I doubt I will ever see the day when you do not, nor do I wish it."

A snort from behind gave Arthur reason to smile in all the grief and tragedy the day had brought. The conversation giving him some measure of comfort, the argument moving his mind to those that still lived, not to dead companions and knights to bury.

He smiled because his closest friend still lived to challenge him.

Indeed his God was merciful in ways such as this.

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**Dear Reader:**

So many times we find people whom we care about so deeply that no matter what the belief, we shoulder their doubts and allow their arguments simply to be prodded in the same way. For Arthur and Lancelot, their fundamental beliefs are so vastly different that it intrigued me that they would be so close. I explored that here.

But I see it that one pushes the others boundaries, expanding their worlds. Lancelot pushes Arthur to react, Arthur tempers Lancelot from acting rashly. Argument and debate for intelligent men can be attractive, and hours spent discussing such matters would definitely be something done when out riding, long journeys with nothing more to do than ride and speak of things that have little or no consequence to their purpose.

I wanted to show Arthur's sense of duty, his need for familiarity, his desire for peace and a different life. I wanted to give him a chance to watch his knights, knowing how each suffers, yet bearing his own alone, at times. To show that he is their commander, and friend, and torn between the grief for lost loved ones and the need to be hard as stone as commander.

Torn in two, yet mended by Lancelot, who's boiling temper and argumentative nature is an oxymoron forArthur's need for quiet and calm. Their friendship akin to oil and water in so many ways, yet mix well.

Intriguing, and I hope I caught some of that in this short piece.

Thank you for reading, and my wish is that you have a friend in your life that gives you the push you need to move forward, yet gives you the companionship you need to survive in this busy world today.

_Cardeia_


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